


Stolen Moments

by MyakuPrince



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:25:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyakuPrince/pseuds/MyakuPrince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Jack has left are broken, stolen moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stolen Moments

Countless people had died before my eyes. Lost friends, family, lovers… It was part of my curse, that I would live forever while everything I loved withered away to nothing. But never, never before had I let that weaken my resolve to break the fundamental rules of time and space. I knew the damage could be catastrophic. 2/3rds of the universe could be destroyed if the fluid, flowing matter of time wasn’t handled with the utmost of caution.  
But he was the one, the only one I couldn’t let go.

It was easy enough to do—after I finally managed to get my vortex manipulator working—recalling nights when I had sent him home instead of letting him linger in my office after the others had long since returned home to get a long-overdue good night’s rest. Nights when I knew, from personal experience, that I wouldn’t leave the hub. After all, encountering yourself from a different time is the number one most dangerous thing to the stability of time’s fragile balance. It was bad enough that I was risking everything to see him again, stealing moments so I wouldn’t have to truly say goodbye.

He had no way of knowing, of course. When I showed up at his door, a bottle of wine in my hand and passion burning in my eyes, he had no reason to think that my desperation was anything more than the lust of a 51st century omnisexual. He had no way of seeing the subtle difference, the crushing desperation of knowing your time with someone was so, so limited. And even then, even stealing those moments in time which should never belong to the present me, I knew time was running out. There were only so many moments to steal, a finite number of instances where the me of that time had sent him home instead of indulging in the comfort of his company there in my office.

As long as I was risking the universe for those moments, I was determined to use them wisely. I had to pace myself—self-control. Every year, on the anniversary of the day he had died in my arms (if I could), I would go back and steal one moment. I knew it couldn’t last—those moments where limited and the number of years I had to spend was not, but I couldn’t bear to ration it any stricter. His fear, in the end, was that I would forget him. I swore to make sure that never happened, by reminding myself every year of the taste of his lips, the feeling of his trembling fingers digging into my back for an anchor, the sweet sound of him moaning my name…

I knew it was selfish, and dangerous, and weak. Never before had I been so desperate not to lose someone that I risked everything just to see them in a lie. But he was special—he had always been special. And I wanted, more than anything, to tell him I loved him in those moments where he lay on top me, sweating, panting, and satisfied. Because after losing him, it had solidified in my heart how much I absolutely, unequivocally loved and adored him. But I couldn’t say it, because as far as he knew, I wasn’t the lover whose arms he confessed his love in, dying. And I couldn’t risk the balance of time and space, as much as the words ate away at my tongue.

So I settled for trying to show him, with each night I spent with him, each past moment I stole away to fuel my addiction. I tried to show him my love by showing him ecstasy, tried to show him how much I cherished his soul by cherishing his body, and hoped beyond all my faith that he understood in a way that not even the me of that time did.

“You don’t have to go,” he whispered to me once as I tried to quietly get up from his bed and find my clothes in the dark. “I could make you coffee—breakfast. We could walk to work together. You don’t have to go back right now and spend the rest of the morning alone.”

And it broke my heart in that moment, because I did have to go back—and not just to spend the morning alone, waiting for him—but to spend the rest of eternity alone, knowing he’d never return, knowing that the only times I’d ever see him again would be in my haunting memories and broken, stolen moments like these.


End file.
